by Andrew Hunt
It was quiet again. Roscoe’s empty chair bothered me. My wristwatch said 8:55. I’ll give him till nine, I thought. Then what? Lay another ineffective lecture on him? What good’ll that do? On the bright side, Jared was at his desk, jotting in his notebook. My curiosity about him suddenly got the best of me, a welcome distraction from Roscoe. I realized he had said something a few minutes ago that wasn’t quite right, and it began to needle away at me. I propped my right ankle on my left knee and kept a close eye on him. Without looking back at me, he stopped writing and lowered his fountain pen. He turned his head slightly, enough to reveal an edge of right ear and a sliver of profile.
“Something up, boss?”
“How did you know about that O’Rourke fella?”
“I told you, there’s an item in this morning’s…”
“That’s bunk. I get the Examiner delivered to my doorstep each morning, and I never saw that article.”
“Oh, it’s there, all right. You must’ve missed it.”
“That so? Why don’t you show it to me?”
He swiveled around and sized me up. “I mighta found it some other way.”
“What other way?”
“I’d rather not say, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Cough it up. Now. And while you’re at it, maybe you can explain why you’re the only man on the force who requested to join this squad?”
The question surprised him. “I reckon I thought this would be a good opportunity for me to be promoted to the detective bureau so I could get experience…”
“Cut it out, Jared, and level with me. How is it that you know so much about these people?”
He knew I had him cornered, figuratively speaking. “You really want to know?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
He gazed at me and stood, like the beanstalk spiraling into the clouds, and put his little fedora on his large head.
“I’ve got a better plan,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
* * *
“Right here, boss. Slow down.”
I braked, halting the black Ford in front of a mansion.
The Queen Anne, inside of a picket fence, took up a major chunk of the block of B Street where it stood. A typical leviathan from the last century, it was the type of formidable abode that might’ve once housed a powerful Mormon Church official, a mining magnate, or a senior partner in a successful law firm. Up close, however, it appeared more run-down, more battered by age, than it did from afar. Still, it was a fine-looking specimen, with its fancy white spandrels, rounded tower, bay windows, and wraparound porch, all of it capped by a steep roof with a pair of dormers that had shades pulled down indoors, forming sleepy eyes.
“This it?”
“Yep. There’s parking right over there.”
I steered curbside, put the car in park, and shut off the engine. “Are you going to tell me in advance what this place is? Or is it going to be a surprise?”
“Wait here.”
Before I could even get out and open the driver’s-side door, Jared was crossing the street, lifting the gate latch, and jogging up to the porch. He tugged the string to an old-fashioned doorbell. Half a minute later, the door opened wide enough for him to squeeze inside. Presto, he was gone. I stepped off the running board, closed the car door, and strolled to the shady sidewalk, where I found relief under a canopy of leafy tree branches. I leaned against a gnarled trunk for what seemed like a while.
I got tired of waiting out in the heat. I retraced Jared’s route across the street, past the picket fence, up the walkway to the front door. I almost knocked. Voices from inside stopped me. The door was made of sturdy wood, with a trio of leaded windows level with my head, obscured by interior curtains. I pressed my ear to the surface. Jared’s muted words mixed with those of a woman, coming and going out of my range of hearing. Ten minutes came and went, but I didn’t hear much. From Jared, I picked up the words “boss,” “trust,” and “fair.” The woman’s words were slightly more distinct, but not much. “Police, “Grand,” and “children” were three words I could clearly make out. It all got me wondering: Why had Jared brought me here? Why couldn’t he simply tell me back in the squad room where he came by that information about Harold O’Rourke?
The doorknob began to turn. I gave myself whiplash standing straight.
“Boss,” said Jared from the doorway. “I thought I asked you to wait.”
“You did,” I said. “But it was taking a while and I thought I’d…”
In the darkened vestibule behind him, I detected the faint presence of a woman, her eyes and mouth wide with concern.
“You said he was waiting across the street!” Her voice cracked with urgency.
“You mind?” Jared asked me, jerking his head in the direction of the Ford parked across the street.
“Not at all.”
I headed back to the car, startled slightly by the intensity of the door slamming behind me as I passed beyond the picket fence. I got in the police sedan, shut the door, rolled down the window, and waited another seven or eight minutes. Jared soon emerged from that enormous house, and within a minute, he was once again sharing the front seat with me.
He stared forward at the road ahead, his face glistening with sweat. “It was too soon. Gimme a little more time, boss.”
“Who is she?”
“Can we go?”
“Not until you give me some answers. Why’d you bring me out here?”
He squirmed in the heat of the car, licking his lips. “I need more time.”
“You’re not going to tell me who she is?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. Not right now.”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go question her myself.…”
He grabbed ahold of my arm, which stopped me from opening the car door. “I’ll make you a deal, boss. Give me a couple of days to soften her up. That’s all I ask for. Then you’ll have all the answers to all your questions.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “I didn’t have to bring you here in the first place. Please trust me on this one.”
“Okay, you’ve got till Monday,” I said. “If I don’t have some answers by then, I’ll come back and question her myself. Understand?”
He nodded. “Thanks, boss.”
I started the car and drove away. I dropped Jared off at Public Safety so he could make inquiries about the mysterious Model T truck I had seen the night of the murders. I spent the rest of that hot July morning driving to the places that LeGrand Johnston visited on his daily outings. I went to bungalows and apartment buildings. I stopped off at a Sears and Roebuck kit house on a sparsely inhabited rural road by the foothills of the Oquirrh Mountains and then journeyed to the opposite side of the valley, to a Tudor mansion south of the University of Utah. I knocked on doors, lots of doors. They all began to blend together in my mind. The intrepid few who actually bothered opening the doors were women. All of them looked the same, with their gravity-defying hairdos done up in buns or braids, and stark black puff-sleeved dress extending to the wrists and ankles, which I assumed was reserved for mourning (although when I asked one if that’s what it was for, she would neither confirm nor deny it). I found the women to be either morose or angry. I asked a lot of questions. They furnished terse replies, shedding no new light on anything, and each one referred me to her attorney, Granville Sondrup.
Fourteen
Roscoe entered the Anti-Polygamy Squad office in a rumpled suit and a tie resembling a noose waiting to be tightened. He crossed the room to his desk, carrying some sort of flat, square object wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a real estate sign. His face still suffered from discoloration and scabs, the result of that beating he’d taken a few days ago, but he was on the mend and looking better than when I last saw him. He seemed extraordinarily cheerful for showing up at work so late. He took a pouch of Red Man out of his pocket and stuffed a wad in his mouth. Seated at my desk, reviewing my squad’s file on LeGrand Johnston, I felt my resentment to
ward Roscoe welling up when I saw him. He can’t keep neglecting his job like this, I thought.
“Where were you all morning?” I said, my voice tight with frustration.
“I got something neat I want to show you, Art,” he said, battered face beaming.
“Buddy asked me about you again today,” I said. “I lied and told him you were out following up on some leads. I hate lying.”
“Ah, to hell with him,” he said with a dismissive wave.
“Are you going to answer my question?” I asked.
Still grinning, he asked, “What was it?”
I closed the file in front of me and then swiveled my chair toward him.
“Where were you this morning?” I asked.
He tore the brown paper off a sturdy square piece of cardstock with a logo on it that looked like it was professionally designed. He handed it to me and I held it up to get a better look. Inside of a hive surrounded by a few buzzing bees it said, BEEHIVE DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS. Below that: EST. 1934.
“Ta-dah!” he said with a Cheshire Cat grin. “What do you think?”
I looked at him. “Private investigator?”
“No more answering to those fools downstairs. What do you say?”
I handed it back. “Looks nice.”
“It ought to,” he said. “That thing cost me half my paycheck. The designer told me if I liked it, he’d paint it on the door and window of my new office.”
“New office?”
“I’m starting my own agency,” he said. “Come with me. We can be partners.”
I chuckled. “Gumshoes, huh?”
“Just like in Black Mask,” he said.
“Funny thing, I don’t seem to remember any of the detectives in those mystery magazines worrying about where the next paycheck is gonna come from.”
“Before you say no, just hear me out,” he said. “My old boss at the Denver and Rio Grande Western told me he’d set me up in an office at the Rio Grande Depot. He’ll also give me some part-time work running security at the yards, till I get on my feet.”
“Those are some ritzy digs.”
“What do you say?” he asked. “You in?”
“This place isn’t perfect,” I said. “Far from it. I’ve got grievances of my own. But the pay is steady. Things aren’t getting any better out there, either. The soup lines still go around the block. If you want to take your chances out there, go ahead. I’m staying right here.”
He grinned at me. “The invitation is always open.”
“Thanks. So when are you leaving?”
He shrugged. “I’d like to save a little money on this job first, build up a nest egg.…”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Until then, I need you to promise me that you’re not going to take any more paid daytime leaves from your job to take care of personal business.”
“All right, that’s reasonable.”
“While you’re here, you need to show up on time and pay careful attention to your job,” I said. “Speaking of which, I could use help right now, at a used-car lot.”
He sneered in disbelief. “You need advice buying a car?”
“I’ll explain on the way there,” I said.
* * *
A square building, mostly windows, stood in the middle of a sea of autos, in the shadow of a sign for BABCOCK MOTORS. Multicolored pennants flapped and rainbow pinwheels pitched in the dry grass buzzed like airplane propellers, thanks to a breeze sweeping through the area. Out here, on 800 South and State, the car dealerships reigned supreme, though they shared the street with motor inns, greasy spoons, cigar stores, taverns, tattoo parlors (for after you’re done at the tavern), and pawnshops that did a brisk business in hard times. None too prosperous, this part of Salt Lake City, but I imagine every city has an area like it. Roscoe and I parked along 800 South and crossed the street, assaulted by a bunch of small advertising signs: SIXTY-DAY WRITTEN GUARANTEE, ASK US ABOUT OUR CREDIT PLAN, DRIVE AWAY IN A CAR THAT’S LIKE NEW. I’d briefed Roscoe about Babcock on the way down. Once at the lot, I spied a portly little man, dressed old fashioned–like, with a straw hat, vest, bow tie, and shirt garters, reminiscent of a Dixieland band member. He gesticulated wildly as he spoke to a young couple.
Roscoe tugged his hat low over a pair of tinted glasses to keep the sun out of his eyes and chewed a wooden match, switching on his gruff cop routine, which no longer fooled me after all these years. It was all an act, a part of his shtick, as they say on the vaudeville circuit. I, on the other hand, went from car to car, skimming windshield stickers. Some decent deals could be had here, especially if you were willing to go back into the last decade. Shielding my eyes with cupped hands, I peered into the window of a handsome little ’27 Oakland sedan, light blue, listed at only seventy-five dollars.
“You’re not actually thinking of buying a car from this asshole, are you?” asked Roscoe.
I moved in close to him. “Do me a favor. Keep the gutter language to a minimum. These people are quite religious.”
“Help you gentlemen?” a voice called out behind us.
We turned at the same time to face Mr. Dixieland, who I assumed was Orville Babcock. His straw hat shaded bulging eyes, and one of his front teeth was made of gold. Not a tall man, maybe five foot five, he had a flabby chin darkened by a five-o’clock shadow, and I could smell his sweet-scented hair tonic even under that hat of his. “Slippery” seemed a good word to describe him.
“Are you in the market for a newer model, or a little number from the good old days?” he asked.
“Are you Orville Babcock?”
“Yes, sir.”
I showed him my badge. “Detective Art Oveson, Salt Lake police. This is my partner, Detective Lund. We’d like to ask questions about LeGrand Johnston.”
The smile on his face flew south. No more gold tooth for us. “I haven’t seen him in years,” he said. “He and I haven’t been in touch since nineteen and twenty-nine.”
“Can you tell me more about your parting of ways?”
“We’re fundamentalist Mormons, he and I. That was what we had in common in the first place.”
“I suppose that makes you a polygamist, like him?” asked Roscoe.
He seemed to consider Roscoe’s question as he whipped out a cotton hankie and dabbed his glistening neck. Ultimately, he opted not to respond to it. “If this is about his murder, I can assure you I played no part in it.”
“You left LeGrand’s cult and founded your own,” said Roscoe.
“I prefer ‘church,’” said Babcock. “Otherwise, that’s accurate.”
I pressed: “Did anything in particular trigger your falling-out with Johnston?”
“God told me to abandon LeGrand’s corrupt church,” Babcock said, with a straight face.
“God told you?” asked Roscoe, lowering his sunglasses to reveal skeptical eyes.
“Yes.”
“Does God talk to you all the time?” asked Roscoe.
“Yes.”
Roscoe pressed: “What does God tell you?”
“He gives me advice.”
“What kind of advice?” asked Roscoe. “Wash behind your ears and wipe with toilet paper?”
Babcock ground his teeth and I thought I spotted a vein bulging out of his throat. “I take great umbrage at your remarks, Detective Lund!”
Roscoe leaned near me, perplexed. “Umbrage?”
“Let me,” I whispered. I stepped closer to Babcock. “I apologize if Detective Lund’s comments offended you. I just have a few more questions.”
“I told everything to the police,” he said.
“You did?” I asked.
“Yes, five years ago, after my break with LeGrand, I went to the police to report his vile practices. Isn’t there some record of my testimony?”
“I haven’t seen anything about it in our files,” I said. “If you’d cooperate with us again, it’d be mighty helpful.”
“LeGrand is an instrument of the devil. My church is the one tr
ue church, the one that Heavenly Father has established on earth as—”
“Shit almighty, Babcock, cut the preaching and make with the specifics,” said Roscoe.
I whispered to Roscoe, “Gutter talk.” His posture slackened slightly with compliance. To Babcock, I said, “What issues did you two disagree over?”
Babcock glowered at Roscoe, although he calmed down after shifting his attention back to me. “I hated LeGrand for supporting the banishments. I thought it was a cowardly and immoral thing to do.”
“Banishments?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“It happens down in Dixie City, around the time the boys turn twelve or thirteen. Certain ones get drummed outta town, sent away to fend for themselves.”
“Not all of them?” asked Roscoe.
He shook his head. “Only those judged impure by the prophet’s council.”
“What’s the prophet’s council?” I asked.
“It’s a tribunal that operates in secrecy. They run their own star chamber and mete out harsh punishments. Most of the boys have no choice but to run away, find somewhere else to live. A lot of them end up here in Salt Lake City. Some woman runs a sort of halfway house for runaway polygamist kids.”
“What’s her name?” I asked. “She might be helpful.”
“’Fraid I can’t help you there,” he said. “I don’t know her name. I’ve only heard of her. The point is, LeGrand and his apostles are making a mockery out of plural marriage. It’s a way of life sanctioned by the Lord, but they’ve turned it into something dark and terrible. I keep trying to persuade Carl to get out of it.”
“Jeppson?” I asked. He nodded. I said, “Do you think he’d be willing to cooperate with us, if we promised him protection?”
“He’s scared,” said Babcock. “These men … you don’t know what they’re capable of. I saw firsthand with Len Orton.”
“Who’s Len Orton?” asked Roscoe.
“He’s one of the reasons I left Grand’s church,” said Babcock. “Orton was an apostle in the church who began questioning some of the church’s crooked practices. One day, he failed to show up at his place of business. He repaired cars. Wasn’t like him to miss work. Ever. His wife filed a missing persons report, but Orton was never found. I have a pretty good idea what happened to him.”
